


little raven

by IceisAwesome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, BAMF Sansa Stark, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Underage Sex, Dark Sansa, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Greenseeing, Greenseer Sansa, Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Mental Health Issues, No sex depicted, R Plus L Equals J, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Sansa becomes the three-eyed raven instead of Bran, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), Warg Sansa Stark, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceisAwesome/pseuds/IceisAwesome
Summary: In one world the Old Gods wait for Bran Stark to fall. In this one they are decidedly more proactive, and young Sansa Stark is chosen instead, shaping an entirely different future.





	1. Beginning

It was supposed to be the younger son. The boy would fall and fly and finally claim his destiny. They had chosen him, certain he would weather the trials ahead, certain he would find his way to their servant.

But even gods can be surprised, and surprised they are when they cast their gaze ahead and see the dead rising sooner than expected, when they see just how many ways the living could fail, could be defeated by their own petty infighting and own petty prejudice.

The people of Westeros must be forewarned, must know the true threat far earlier than expected, and they cannot wait. They cannot wait for the boy to fall, cannot wait for him to meet the raven.

Luckily the strings of fate are cut far more easily than any mortal would dare to dream. Luckily it is the work of a moment to whisper through the trees to the girl in grey, to dizzy and disorient her, to leave her wandering through the forest in the pouring rain.

The girl in grey catches a fever, just as they know she would. The girl in grey catches a fever, and it takes next to nothing to creep into her mind, to whisper secrets and plant knowledge, to give her the power that manages to be a curse and a blessing all at once.

* * *

Sansa knows she is dreaming.

She isn’t sure how she knows, not really, but something tells her it doesn’t matter. Something tells her it doesn’t matter as she walks through the snow, driven on and on until she finally reaches the heart tree, gazing up and into its carved eyes.

“A terrible burden,” a voice dry as dust whispers then, cutting through the silence, and she turns quickly, looking around.

“Up here!” The voice calls again, and she looks up and up until her eyes catch at the raven perched on the upper branches, the raven that peers down with three black eyes.

The raven rustles its wings once, twice, before swooping down, landing on the ground in front of her. Slowly, cautiously, Sansa kneels down, suddenly aware of her bare feet as the cold seeps into her skin, as the snow stains her pretty new dress.

“Young for such a terrible burden,” the raven mutters, hopping forward to look up at her. “Young, but our only chance.”

“What?” She asks, confusion obvious, but the raven only sighs, its eyes glittering with an emotion she cannot decipher.

“The gods are not cruel,” the bird replies instead, “remember that, no matter what comes next.”

“Which gods?” the girl asks, startling a wheezing laugh from the raven.

“The only gods that matter, little bird. The gods of your father and his fathers’ before him.”

The bird still makes no sense, still talks in circles, so Sansa merely frowns, merely catches on what matters most.

“I’m a wolf,” she insists, “not a bird.”

The raven caws again, the wheezing laugh echoing, before darting forward, beak catching a lock of her bright hair and pulling just sharp enough to sting.

“It matters not what you call yourself, child. You are a raven now, until death comes for you as it will come for me.”

“I don’t understand,” Sansa finally admits, a flicker of shame welling up at failing what seems to be a test, but the bird only laughs a third and final time, something like sadness caught in its voice.

“You will.”


	2. Aftermath

Her daughter wakes with a scream.

Maester Luwin had claimed the fever had passed, that they only needed to wait for Sansa to wake. Loathe as Catelyn was to leave her side, she had duties to attend to and other children to take care of. And if Robb snuck out of his lessons to bring Arya in to see Sansa sleeping, if the  _bastard_  took Bran to see his sister-well, sometimes a mother knows when to look the other way.

But then her daughter wakes. Catelyn is in the middle of instructing a servant when she hears the scream, when she hears the high voice and realizes it comes from Sansa’s room. She doesn’t even bother to dismiss the maid, ignoring propriety to hurry through the halls until she reaches her daughter's room.

Opening the door, she cannot contain the gasp at the puddle of vomit on the floor, at the blood staining her sweet daughter’s lips.

“Robb!” Catelyn calls to the boy staring wide eyed at his sister, “fetch the maester.”

As her son hurries out the door, still clutching Arya’s hand as she trips after him, Catelyn reaches for Sansa. But her sweet daughter scrambles back on her bed, blue eyes wide with fear.

“Sansa?” she asks, frozen as her own daughter flinches from her touch.

“A lady with a stone heart,” her daughter screams, sweet high voice quavering in fear. “Bells and drums and screams, clatter and clamor and the dead wolf king!”

“Sansa,” Catelyn tries again, unable to make sense of Sansa’s words, but her daughter shakes her head, tears dripping down her cheeks.

“You’re not real! You can’t be real, can’t be. A knife takes you from me, cuts a bloody line across your throat.”

“It was only a dream,” she insists, tries to quell the terror in her heart as Sansa speaks of death.

“Don’t,” her daughter whispers, eyes red with tears. “Don’t cut my hair, don’t, Ned loves my hair.”

The maester appears just then, Robb and Arya hovering behind the man.

“Please,” Catelyn nearly begs, “be a good girl and let Maester Luwin look at you.” Miraculously Sansa only nods, pushing herself up and onto the edge of the bed.

“Now, Lady Sansa,” Luwin begins, voice gentle as he takes in the tears on her face and the blood still sticky on her lips, as he moves to avoid the puddle of vomit in the floor. “How do you feel?”

“You’ll die,” Sansa answers instead, tears still streaming down her face. “Eyes bright like stars and hands cold as winter. You’ll die, we’ll all die!”

Sansa is pale as snow, the blood on her lips a stark contrast, and Catelyn’s heart nearly stops at the sight, at the raving coming from her little girl’s lips.

“The raven lied. Too much too soon, too little too late. Which one wins?”

Sansa sobs again, cries and cries even as Maester Luwin gently reaches out to dab the blood away from her lip, even as the maids hurry in to clean up the vomit.

* * *

Theon bears no love for the Starks, not when they hold him captive. He bears them no love, but even he cannot help feeling queer when faced with the hush over Winterfell, how it feels like a funeral.

Robb had snapped when Theon asked though, Jon had merely walked off, so he doesn’t know why the Starks are being so damn despondent.

He doesn’t know, at least until bright little Arya openly asks her mother if Sansa is mad. Theon watches as Lady Catelyn goes white, as Lord Stark sets down his own goblet with a clatter, as Robb and Jon exchange a look.

It is not until later, as he practices in the yard, that Theon realizes just how mad.

“Hostage,” a thin high voice speaks up as he readies an arrow, and the bow goes slack in his hands at the words, turning angrily to respond.

But he only finds Sansa, clad only in a thin under dress and hair unbound. It’s clear she’s escaped from her room but Theon cannot fathom how or why she would.

“You fear the sword,” she continues on, uncaring that he hasn’t responded. “You fear blood on snow and heads on spikes, you fear the wolves. You shouldn't, you know. There are much worse things in the world.”

“Go away,” Theon finally manages, already unnerved by this mad little girl.

“It’s alright,” she replies quickly, flicking her eyes to the target and back to him. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Sansa!” a voice calls across the yard, and he turns to see Lady Catelyn hurrying towards them, hair already escaping from her braids.

“What is dead may never die,” the girl says, ignoring her mother completely to watch him with wide blue eyes, to stare as he freezes. “But rises again harder and stronger. When the cold winds blow and the sea is frozen, your house will regret those words."


	3. Voices and Visions

They think her mad.

Sansa would know this even without the raven’s curse (and it must be a curse, what else could it be? What could explain the death in her dreams and the whispers in her head?) They whisper and point and Theon avoids her, Arya stares and father broods, mother treats her like glass, as though she may shatter at any moment.

She doesn’t know how to tell mother she is already broken.

They think her mad but Sansa knows too much, not too little, and she doesn’t-she doesn’t know how to make them believe.

In her dreams Winterfell always falls. In her dreams the creatures of ice and snow descend on the north. In her dreams father rises with eyes that shine and Robb is skewered, mother and Arya and Bran and Rickon all die. 

But there’s no respite when she wakes, not when their dying screams echo in her ears, not when the chilling laughter of those monsters snakes through her mind.

The raven tasked her with defeating the Others, but Sansa cannot find a way to avert the future. Mother worships the Seven, would never believe the Old Gods told her, and even father thinks himself too rational to believe myths and legends.

_Forewarned is forearmed,_  one of the voices whispers, and Sansa lets out a frustrated huff, fingers clenching at the furs gathered around her. Mother had forbid her from sewing, had told the Septa of her new  _condition_  when the woman asked, and now she finds herself alone. Bored, too, for she can taste the terror in the history books, can see how the songs would truly end.

Chewing at her bottom lip-the taste of blood would be a welcome distraction-she looks up as the door creaks open, eyes catching on her bastard brother.

“Sansa,” the boy starts, “I just wanted to see if you were alright-”

Jon shifts in awkward silence, gazed focused on the wall just left of her, but Sansa is too busy staring. Too busy looking at the scales drawn along his skin, too preoccupied eyeing the wings that shift and shudder behind him.

She wants to know more-needs to know more-and Jon startles when his little sister grabs hold of his hand, tugging at it until he’s within reach.

Then he yelps, snatching his hand back from her, staring at the hint of blood now staining her lips.

“Blue roses and blood,” Sansa mutters dreamily, rising so the furs fall to the floor. “Blue roses and blood and dying dragons.”

“Thank you, Jon,” she says, his blood still on her lips.

“Sansa?” Jon asks tentatively, hand still cradled to his chest, but she only smiles.

“Everything will be alright,” and she smiles wide, tongue flicking out to lick at the last remains of the blood that tastes of fire and snow.

* * *

Sansa doesn’t bother to fix her dress, doesn’t bother to tame her tangled hair. Not when she runs through the halls to her father’s solar, not when she dodges servants and skips around a bewildered Robb.

“Father?” She asks, knocking on the door as loud as she can before it’s opened.

“Sansa?” her father asks, blinking in surprise as he takes her in, as he sees her wild hair and the bit of blood still staining her lip.

Easily she weaves around him, darting further into the room and pushing herself up and onto the huge desk and its piles of parchment.

“Sansa, you can’t-” he starts, eyes filled with something that looks far too much like pity.

“I know you lied to mother,” she says instead, cutting off whatever excuses the lord has.

“What?” Ned finally asks, kneeling down to look her in the eyes.

“A dying girl bleeding out on a bed of blue roses and blood.  _Promise me, Ned,_ she said, and you did your best to honor that promise.”

Father’s eyes widen at that, seemingly rendered speechless.

“The prince died with the wolf’s name on his lips and you hid away his son, you spent years protecting the last dragon.”

“How-” Ned and starts and stops, eyes troubled as he looks at her. “How do you know?”

She cannot help the bitter smile that comes, the wry chuckle that bubbles out. “It was no ordinary fever. Not when the Old Gods’ servant whispered and weaved, not when I woke with visions and voices.”

Leaning forward, Sansa gently pokes at her father’s nose, eyes furrowed in concentration. “The Others will come, father. And with them the dead rise and monsters walk, with them eternal winter reigns and all hope is lost-unless the living are prepared.”

* * *

It is not entirely uncommon for fevers to break the mind. Ned knows this, has known for quite some time, and yet he never expected this. He never expected sweet Sansa to wake with a warped mind, he never expected his precious girl to be so broken.

Catelyn treats the poor child like glass, fussing over her endlessly, and Ned doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do when faced with those empty blue eyes, when faced with his daughter's too knowing gaze.

He thinks Sansa means to confront him when she eventually seeks him out, thinks the poor girl will ask why Ned is avoiding her.

He didn’t expect this.

“The Old Gods,” Ned breathes slowly, voice thick with emotion as his daughter stares him down, looking more like a commander than she has any right to be. 

His first instinct is to deny his daughter, is to dismiss her words as tales. But Ned is of the north, even with a Tully wife, and is not so eager to dismiss a warning from the Gods. Not when Sansa knows the truth of Jon’s parentage-not when she has no way of knowing but one.

This is a blessing from the Gods, it must be, and yet he never thought them so cruel. Never thought they would take one of his own children. 

“The dead come,” he finally says, more statement than question, and little Sansa nods.

Breathing in and out, trying to calm his racing heart, Ned finally nods.

“What do we need to do?”

The smile she rewards him with is blinding. 


	4. Hard Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is really more of an interlude but it sets up plot stuff for later chapters

“Cat,” her sweet Ned speaks up as she prepares to put Rickon to bed, appearing in the doorway. Some may think his look blank, but Catelyn has lived with him for years, can see the distress on his face plain as day.

“Ned?” She asks, rising from Rickon’s side, but her husband only shakes his head. “Not here, not where anyone could hear us.”

Worry rising, Catelyn follows her husband through the halls, nodding at the servants and guardsmen as they make their way to the solar.

When they finally enter, door clacking shut behind them, he pauses, rubbing a hand against his furrowed brow before practically collapsing in his seat.

“Ned?” Catelyn tries again, worry gnawing at her insides as her husband broods, “is this…is this about Sansa’s madness?”

“Sansa is not mad!” Ned snaps then, his own vehemence startling both of them. 

Hesitant after his own outburst, Catelyn reaches out a hand to lay atop his own. “There are few husbands we could find for her, even as the eldest daughter of the warden of north. It may be best to keep her-”

“Sansa is  _not_ mad,” he repeats again, voice still harsh. 

“Forgive me,” her husband pleads when he notices her flinch back, when he sees the hurt on her face.

“But our daughter is not mad, Catelyn. The Old Gods have blessed our house by giving Sansa the gift of sight.”

Laughter bubbles out before she can stop it, thinking back to the wild tales of seers and skinchangers Bran and Arya loved so dearly.

“I am serious,” her husband replies, eyes hard as he looks at her. “There is a great danger coming and we are lucky to be warned of it. I know this, Cat. I know Sansa speaks the truth because-” and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Because she knew the truth of Jon’s mother.”

The  _bastard_  had always been a point of contention, had always been the one dark spot on an otherwise happy marriage. Catelyn feels her lips pull into a sneer.

“Who was she, then? Some smallfolk girl? A fisherman's wife? A _whore_?”

“You will _not_ speak of her that way,” Ned snaps out, eyes cold as ice.

“Then who was she, Ned?” 

Taking another shuddering breath, her husband reaches out to catch hold of her hand. “Jon’s mother was mine own sister Lyanna…and his father Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Blood rushes in her ears, her heart hammers in her chest, and Catelyn jerks her hand away from him. Stumbling to her feet, desperate to get away, to flee.

“Catelyn?” He looks at her with those damnably kind eyes, with the same furrowed brow she had grown to love, and Catelyn snaps.

“Family, duty, honor,” she hisses out. “I am your wife and you kept this from me, you have a duty to your family and you hid a dragon within our home. You think yourself honorable and yet let everyone believe you sired a bastard?”

“What choice did I have?” Ned hisses back, standing quickly to look her in the eye.

“Would you expect me to tell a wife I barely knew of his true parents? What else what I have done, abandon the boy to live as some peasant in Essos? Jon is the only child of my sister, I did what needed to be done.”

Silence reigns, husband and wife equally incensed, before Catelyn shakes her head.

“I cannot forgive you,” she says sadly, uncaring of how her husband flinches as though physically struck.

“Catelyn-” he calls as she leaves, fleeing down the hall until she reaches her own chambers, until she can collapse to the bed and finally cry.

* * *

The children have been unusually quiet during their lessons. Luwin wouldn’t mind if this was a sudden case of them developing manners, but it isn’t. It can’t be, not when Lady Sansa’s new madness hangs over them all.

He tidies what the children left, huffing in annoyance at the obscenities the Greyjoy boy carved into the wood of the desk years before.

“Maester Luwin?” A voice interrupts his thoughts, the maester turning and bowing to Lord Stark.

“Lord Stark,” he replies, nothing the exhaustion in his lord’s shoulders, the almost slumped way he carries himself. Could it have something to do with the fight with Lady Catelyn the guards insist on chattering about?

“We have seen near a decade of summer with no end in sight,” Lord Stark finally proclaims after an increasingly awkward silence, “and I begin to worry of when winter finally comes. You remember the old saying?”

“Once a summer, twice a winter,” Luwin recalls easily, the picture before him becoming clear. “A superstitious belief but one, in this case, I believe is likely correct. What would you have me do, my lord?”

“Investigate this. Send ravens to the citadel and seek their advice. I want confirmation before anything drastic is decided.”

“And if your suspicion is true?” He asks easily, familiarity with the lord allowing him the question.

“Then we must prepare,” his lord declares grimly, a frown etched across his face.

“Understood, my lord,” Luwin replies, bowing before making his way back to the tower.

As he pens the letter, as he scratches down his own calculations, the maester finds himself worrying. Winter may not come for years yet and still he cannot help his nerves.

Not when none of his charges have truly experienced winter. Not when the children he has taken care of are truly the children of summer. 

Winter will come, that much is certain, but he dearly hopes it will not come soon.


	5. Stitches and Talks

Sucking the blood from her finger, Sansa finishes her stitching, tying the knot off neatly before assessing at her work.

“What are you making?” A girlish voice interrupts her, and she looks up, flashing a pretty smile at little Beth Cassel. 

“A flayed man,” she says proudly, tilting the embroidery so Jeyne can see the red stitches of the dead man on the pink background, can see the blood staining the fabric.

“Is that blood?” Jeyne Poole asks, voice shaken as Septa Mordane turns from scolding Arya, and Sansa smiles.

“It is. It’s very pretty, don’t you think?” Sansa asks idly, turning to look back at the blood staining the dead man she painstakingly worked on.

“Lady Sansa!” the septa interrupts before a stunned Jeyne can talk, her own voice scolding. “You know better than to stitch such depravities-”

“It’s a sigil,” she absentmindedly corrects, fingers running along the fabric as she admires her work. “The sigil of House Bolton is a flayed man.”

House Bolton, who will soon receive father’s letter and only see an opportunity. Sansa sees them even now, the heir with laughing eyes and a bright smile, the lord that thinks himself a king, even the sullen bastard boy.

Arya is watching her now, clearly delighted by the show, as Septa Mordane stutters before her eyes narrow.

“A lady should not make such things,” the septa finally declares in a huff, stretching out a hand to take the offending embroidery from Sansa.

But she keeps hold of it, letting the septa see the disdain plain on her face. 

“This lady is of the north,” she idly replies, “and respects the north’s traditions.”

The septa looks around for help but finds none, not when Arya is openly smiling nor when Jeyne and Beth avert their eyes. After all, even twittering Jeyne and little Beth were born and raised in the north-unlike the woman currently irritating Sansa.

“Really, my lady,” the woman continues on, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you! To insult the seven so by refusing to visit the sept, to stitch such things…perhaps you shouldn't have returned-"

Sansa can hear the words the woman hides.  _Mad, lackwit, halfwit, broken,_  the voices whisper in her head. 

“You forget yourself, septa,” she replies in a voice cold as ice, letting the septa see the rage in her eyes. “I am the daughter of your liege lord and you would do well to remember it. Besides,” Sansa adds again, lips quirking up at the corners, “the seven are false gods.”

Her little sister lets out a inelegant snort at that, wheezing with laughter at the look on Mordane’s face.

“The seven-”

“Hold no power in the north,” Sansa replies, standing with her embroidery still in her hand. “They have no power here, just as you had no power over the man dressed in gems and silk or the woman who despised his base-born daughter.”

The septa pales drastically at that, hands shaking as she staggers back. Sansa only smiles.

“Come along, we can find something more interesting than this.”

* * *

It had taken next to nothing to convince father to halt their lessons with the septa, next to nothing to have him increase their learning from Maester Luwin to include more than just history and writing and arithmetic.

Still, Sansa expects her next move will take more effort.

“Father,” she slips into the solar yet again, taking in his grimace. Sansa knows he and mother must have had yet another fight.

“I want to train in archery and have Arya trained in sword-craft.”

“Sansa,” father starts hesitantly, “your mother is already unhappy-”

“Brown eyes, green eyes, blue eyes,” Sansa recites, looking her father in the eyes. “Arya will kill with or without training. And I would like to protect myself." (That is not all of course, not when she dreams of dead stags and bloody hands.)

Her father only frowns, face twisting at the knowledge his youngest daughter will kill, and Sansa presses onward.

“If you refuse I will simply have Jon teach us.”

He does sigh at that, fingers rubbing along his graying beard.

“Very well,” father finally agrees, “I will speak to Ser Rodrik.”

“You are certain we must wait?” Father asks then, searching for a change of topic, and Sansa nods.

“The King Beyond the Wall is not yet crowned. Let blood spill and bonds break, let the Others claim their trophies. We will not succeed without him.”

“And who is he?” Father asks again.

She hums thoughtfully, a strain of half remembered music, before answering. “A cloak of red and black, a crow searching for freedom. A man who would protect his people.”

Father frowns again, certainly caught by the implication the man is an oathbreaker, and Sansa resists a sigh.

“He will come, and with him will come thousands. Thousands we deny the Others.”

“I do not like it,” father replies, and she only responds with an unladylike shrug.

“You don’t have to like it. You only have to do it.”

Peace between free folk and kneelers, Sansa reflects as she leaves the solar. Peace between those north and south of the wall.

The king crow with his songs and the giant-slayer with his stories, the girl kissed by fire with her bow made of weirwood. 

She can’t wait to meet them. 


	6. The Dreadfort

The news from Lord Stark was troubling, to say the least.

Roose had immediately taken the letter and attached calculations to Wolkan, hiding a grimace when the man confirmed exactly what the parchment claimed.

Winter would soon be on them, and almost certainly twice as long as summer.

Pale eyes glinting in something dangerously close to dissatisfaction, Roose finds himself reading the letter again.

Lord Stark’s orders are remarkably simple: two thirds of each harvest must be stored. 

Still, he knows honorable Ned Stark, and the fervor of the man’s words is…almost worrying.

Finally letting the parchment fall back onto the table, he moves again, ignoring his guardsmen in favor of the training yard.

Domeric had returned from the Vale only a month before, quite eager to meet his bastard brother. His heir had adored the boy from the start and with that adoration, Roose reflects as he watches Domeric block another thrust from Ramsay’s practice sword, came a desire to teach.

The bastard had whined quite a bit at first, the vicious thing doubtlessly wishing for a real blade, but his eldest son was quite insistent. Roose hardly cared if the boy ended up with a gash, but it seemed his time in the south has made his heir sentimental.

Repressing a frown at the thought, he watches until his son finally knocks the bastard to the ground. The boy was learning, he had to admit. He would never be truly worthy of the Dreadfort, of course, but it was always best to have a spare.

Ramsay ignores his brother’s attempt to help him up, slapping his hand away, but Roose finds himself still preoccupied with Stark’s strange letter, with the persistent feeling the lord was hiding something.

“Father,” Domeric interrupts his thoughts, a small smile quirking at his lips, and as his son turns to ruffle the bastard’s hair, a plan comes to mind.

His eldest son is handsome, many would agree. His eldest is handsome and the heir to one of the oldest houses in the north. And Stark has two daughters-though the older one would be more appropriate. Still, a Stark marrying in would be quite a coup.

Satisfied, Roose gives his sons a curt nod before making his way to the rookery. He has a betrothal to arrange.

* * *

Ramsay can’t decide if he likes the Dreadfort. Oh, there is far more food to eat than there ever was at the mill. The beds are real and not stuffed with straw, father turns a blind eye when he makes his own entertainment, when he wants to watch something-or someone-scream and bleed. 

But with the Dreadfort comes endless lessons on writing and history and shit he couldn’t give a fuck about. With it comes father, with it comes a man Ramsay is starting to realize he will never be able to please.

And of course there’s Domeric. Domeric who showers him with affection, who insists on treating him like a fellow true-born son and not a bastard. And yet-he doesn’t want to be a bastard. Ramsay wants a title of his own, wants men to look at him the same way they look at father, and his brother is the only thing standing in his way.

“Domeric,” father says suddenly, interrupting Ramsay with a glare as the boy stabs at his meat. “You will be accompanying me to Winterfell in three days time.”

“For what purpose?” Domeric asks, face shining in the light, and oh, Ramsay wants to see what he’d look like bloody and beaten, what he’d look like without that damn smile in his eyes.

“Lord Stark has two daughters,” father replies, “and I aim to betroth you to the eldest.”

“How old is she, father?” Domeric asks uncertainly, “I don’t recall her.”

“I believe the girl is ten,” father admits, still sipping on his boiled water as he examines Domeric.

“Ten?” his brother repeats, his own shock slipping out. “I’m over ten years older than the girl!”

“And you are the heir to the Dreadfort,” their father replies, voice cold as he stares Ramsay’s brother down. “Has your time in the Vale made you soft? Have you forgotten your duty?”

“No,” Domeric says quickly, cowed by Lord Bolton’s accusing glare. “No.”

“But what of Ramsay?”

“He will stay, of course. I will not let the boy jeopardize our goal.”

Perhaps it’s father’s words. Perhaps it’s realizing he’s never been beyond the mill or the castle. Whatever it is, something makes him speak up.

“And how do you know I won’t do something while you’re gone?” He smiles in a mockery of Domeric’s own handsome smirk, pale eyes bright as he continues. “It would be so easy to send a letter to Lord Stark with you gone, so easy to tell of the prisoners in the cells. To tell him about mother.”

For just a moment Ramsay thinks his father means to kill him, pale eyes bright with rare anger. 

“If nothing else,” Domeric offers weakly, “you can keep an eye on him at Winterfell.”

Silence for a moment, both brothers staying stock still, when their father finally speaks.

“Very well.”

Domeric lets out a small sigh of relief as soon as father is out the hall, catching sight of Ramsay’s own pensive frown and smiling.

“Don’t worry, little brother, it will be an adventure.”


	7. First Meetings

In all her dreams she dies.

The lion who would do anything for love pushes her from a tower, the wind singing in her ears as her bones crack on the pavement. 

A sword of ice pierces her flesh, the monster impales her, but she feels no pain. She feels nothing but the cold as her blood freezes in her veins. 

Dragon fire engulfs her, burning away skin and flesh as she screams in pain, as she screams and screams until she’s nothing but ash.

No matter the method, in all her dreams she dies.

* * *

“Sansa? Sansa!” 

A voice interrupts yet another dream, interrupts the pale blade plunging into her heart.

She awakens with a cry, hand flying up to rest on her chest. Sansa lets out a shuddering breath, trying to calm herself as she presses down through the fabric, fruitlessly searching for a bloody hole. 

Uncaring of her mother watching, she pulls down her nightgown, breathing in another sigh of relief when met with nothing but smooth skin.

“Mother,” she greets the woman standing over her bed with a dull smile, swinging her legs down and sitting up.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Catelyn asks quietly as the maids fill the tub and lay out her dress, but she shakes her head.

“No,” she confides, “I just saw one of the ways I would die.”

Mother’s hands clench in her skirts at that, mouth thinning, but Sansa only spares her a glance before sinking into the newly filled tub. Even with her comments on Aunt Lysa, even with recounting Minisa’s last words, mother is still uncertain. Sansa suspects only seeing a wight will finally ease her doubts.

“Well,” mother starts with forced cheer when she leaves the tub and slips her shift on, “Lord Bolton and his son will be arriving soon.”

“Sons.”

“What?” Mother asks, pausing in her brushing out her hair.

“The leech lord is bringing his heir and his bastard,” she replies absently, tilting her head as mother stiffens in shock, brush tugging a touch too hard.

“The flayed man wants a betrothal,” Sansa continues before mother can speak, “wants me for his southron raised son.”

“That won’t happen,” mother responds, voice hard.

 _Ned would never allow it,_  the voices whisper.

 _She deserves better,_  they mutter in her mind.

Sansa only hums in response.

* * *

Only a few hours have passed since she woke, but the day is already terrible.

The skin on the inside of her arms is red and raw from scratching, from needing to do something, anything, to quiet the mindless chatter in her head.

She sees the dead man swinging from a tree, the woman weeping by the river, even the pale eyed boy with his hands dripping red with blood.

The dead man, the weeping woman, the bloodied boy-they must be important, have to be, but Sansa cannot imagine how or why. Even the voices are silent when she tries to ask and make them useful.

“Sansa,” a voice interrupts her scratching at her skin, and she meets eyes with her cousin. Jon is still wary around her but she cannot fault him for that, not when she harmed him. The not-bastard doesn’t try to move her hands away like mother would, only smiling gently with worried eyes as he takes in her red and raised skin.

Reluctantly she drops her hands to her sides, wringing at her pale dress.

A shout comes from the guards, the gate starts to open, and she takes a deep breath, settling into place besides Arya, forcing her face into a mask of calm.

She can do this.

* * *

“Stop slouching,” Domeric hisses out, voice low in an attempt to go unnoticed by their father.

Ramsay scoffs at that but reluctantly straightens, hands tight on his horse’s reins. 

Winterfell rises in the distance, father cantering his horse forward as they reach the gates. The keep is even larger up close, the grey stone rising higher and higher, and he’s grudgingly impressed. One look at Winterfell and he already knows it’s far grander than home.

Domeric straightens nervously as the guards shout, eyes flickering with emotion. Ramsay doesn’t know why his brother could be nervous, not with the way he is. Domeric was raised on southron chivalry and has a far sterner sense of honor than father, of course the oh so honorable Lord Stark will love him. Ramsay is the one who will suffer since father had made it clear he would be denied his usual amusements, insisting they could not provoke the slightest suspicion. 

If Ned Stark with his weak stomach and precious  _honor_  is anything like the old Kings of Winter, Ramsay can’t fathom how they ever managed to crush his family.

“Lord Stark,” father dismounts to greet the man standing in the courtyard, surrounded by a flock of children.

“Lord Bolton,” Stark greets him with a great deal more enthusiasm compared to father’s usual lifeless tone, striding forward to greet him. 

“This is my heir Domeric,” father says, gesturing to Domeric standing tall and proud. “And my bastard, Ramsay Snow,” he adds, his tone still measured. 

Ramsay notices Lord Stark’s southron wife purse her lips, eyes hard. 

 _She would be pretty,_  he absently notes, _if it weren’t for her looking like she’s just smelled shit._

“It is a pleasure,” his wife says again, attempting to smile and failing miserably.

Ignoring Stark’s southron wife and her southron pleasantries, he flicks his gaze to the Stark children, absently noting how all but one have their mother’s look.

“And this is my son Robb,” Stark finally speaks again, a hand laying on the tallest boy’s shoulder. “My daughter Sansa-”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Domeric attempts to charm, gaze on his would be betrothed. The girl is quite pretty, he’ll admit that. Her skin is as pale as snow, her blue eyes like gems-oh, how Ramsay longs to pluck them out. Even her hair is beautiful, burning bright as fire.

Introductions continue but he doesn’t hear, not with the girl-Sansa-is there, not when he pictures how perfect blood would look while sticky on her skin.

Sansa looks at him as her father prattles on, blue eyes bright, before her face breaks into a smile. Not a gentle smile, not a kind smile. No, the girl smiles like a wolf baring fangs, like a beast about to tear into prey.

Ramsay knows he’s in love.


	8. A Friendly Visit

_It’s him,_ Sansa realizes as she watches the sullen boy linger behind his brother.

Fresh blood drips from his hands, old blood stains his worn doublet and smears his breeches. She knows how to tell the false from the real, knows the blood is merely something the gods want her to see-and still she can’t look away.

This boy delights in violence, that is plain. Looking into his pale eyes, she knows he dances with death, knows he laughs at the screams of the dying. This bastard boy is a monster in human form, and yet Sansa only feels comforted. 

She has seen empires crumble and cities fall, has watched men and women and children die in so many different ways. Father and mother hide from the truth of what must be done, her siblings know nothing of war. From one glance she can tell the southron heir sees violence as a necessary evil, the leech lord views it as nothing more than a tool.

But the bastard boy does not shy away, does not pretend his cruelty is for the greater good or necessary. He is violent and vulgar and well acquainted with death-the same death she sees night after night.

The Bolton bastard smiles back, pale eyes alight with interest. Ramsay Snow smiles at her and Sansa cannot help her blush, cannot help the way her stomach twists queerly in response.

* * *

The situation would be comical were it not so awkward.

He knows father must have noticed the Stark girl’s savage smile, knows he must have noticed, just like Domeric had, how she blushed at Ramsay’s answering grin.

It only continues when they are served bread and salt. Lady Sansa is courteous and polite, it is clear she knows all the right words when he speaks to her. But Domeric sees how her attention strays to his little brother, how he gazes back with undisguised fascination.

Domeric knows what is coming and so he does not flinch when father closes the door to their rooms behind him. He does not flinch even as father rounds on his little brother, uncaring of his one man audience.

“Stay away from Sansa Stark,” father tells Ramsay, his voice as always void of emotion, void of any clue as to how he feels.

His little brother is supposed to agree, is supposed to back down in the face of father’s stare. Of course Ramsay ignores how he’s supposed to respond, of course he puffs up to his full (and unimpressive) height. Of course his foolish brother aims his best glare back.

“Do you think you have a chance?” Father responds to the unspoken challenge, his voice cold as ice. “Even if you managed not to scare her away, you are a bastard. Your brother will be bedding the girl, not you.”

Domeric never believed Ramsay would truly harm him. Oh, he knows of his brother’s activities, knows why the servants are so scared of him. Yet as father moves to leave, he cannot help noticing the considering look on Ramsay’s face, the calculating gaze as he turns to look at his own brother.

Kinslaying is forbidden by the gods, yet he doubts Ramsay cares.

* * *

He keeps staring at the Stark girl, at Sansa. Oh, how he’d love to seek her out, to see if she’s truly like him. But the southron bitch constantly hovers around her, and when the bitch isn’t present Domeric is there instead, doing his best to charm her despite Sansa only having eyes for him. 

Father’s punishment for cornering her will be painful, of that Ramsay has no doubt, but that is still not enough to keep him from planning to sneak into her room.

With father and Domeric away and the corridor to her room strangely empty of any guards, he starts to push the door open.

“It’s a beautiful day,” a sweet voice interrupts his efforts, Ramsay turning quickly with a lie ready on his lips, “don’t you agree?”

“Lady Sansa,” he replies easily, “I was just-”

“Trying to sneak into my room?” she responds, lips creased in a smile as she smooths a hand across her pale grey dress.

“I’m afraid you won’t find anything but dresses and books. And it’s your brother who enjoys songs and tales, not you.”

“That’s true,” Ramsay agrees, gaze turning cautious. He can’t remember Domeric ever speaking of his poorly hidden love of songs, cannot remember his brother waxing poetic on his tomes to any of the Starks.

“Would you like to accompany me to the godswood?” Sansa asks abruptly. “My parents are with your father and brother and my siblings scattered. If we are quick and quiet none of them will notice.”

Such a bold offer is surprising but Ramsay smiles nonetheless, grin turning sharp at her own smirk.

* * *

Sansa visited the godswood only once since the raven spoke, scared and alone and desperate for answers. But the gods did not respond, the raven never spoke again, and she had avoided it since.

But it seems appropriate to talk to the bloody boy here, where so much blood has already been spilled.

“The Kings of Winter used to sacrifice captives before the heart tree,” Sansa starts, turning to look at the bastard boy. “Some of them would string the entrails from the weirwoods so the gods could see.”

“Did you read this?” Ramsay asks her, gaze measuring, and Sansa cannot help the laugh that bubbles out.

“I saw it,” she confides. “Just as I saw your mother weeping after your father raped her, just as I saw her husband swinging from a tree.”

The boy freezes, eyes filled with caution as he stares at her.

“I won’t tell my father,” Sansa says-whether to reassure him, even she doesn’t know. “Not when Lord Bolton will prove useful later.”

“Useful for what?” he asks, and she smiles in response.

“The end of the world, of course.”

His gaze has turned disbelieving.

Sansa steps forward then, thankful the voices are quiet as she speaks, as she tries to put what she sees to words.

“Your hands are stained with blood. You delighted in pain since you were a child, since the miller’s wife found you skinning cats and killing animals. She tried to tame you, tried to keep you from your bloody habits, but you only grew wilder as you aged. Lord Bolton acknowledged you and you could indulge for the first time, couldn’t you?”

“Torturing captives, hunting men and women through the woods…” she trails off as Ramsay’s breath hitches, as his body is torn between fight or flight.

“I see death every night,” Sansa admits softly. “I see horrors of all kinds when I close my eyes…and I have tried to fight the urge to indulge in the same.”

“It is comforting,” she continues, “to find someone else who  _reeks_  of death.”

* * *

Ned cannot understand why Lord Bolton thought his son was a suitable match.

He doesn’t think Roose lies when he speaks of his son’s chivalry or his love of songs and stories. He has spoken to Domeric himself and he seems to be exactly the sort of husband he wants for his own daughter. Quiet and studious and gentle but still skilled in swordplay, still able to protect Sansa if needed.

But the man is over eleven years older than his daughter, and that is unacceptable.

And, well, he doesn’t know if anyone could handle Sansa as she is now. Not when Sansa becomes trapped in her own head, not when she speaks in riddles and claws at her skin. Any potential husband would fear her, not love her, and he knows she would not stand for it. Just as she cannot stand the pity in her own mother’s eyes.

“Father,” his daughter speaks then, standing at the door to his solar.

“Sansa,” Ned greets his daughter, a small smile coming to his lips at the sight of her. Her eyes are bright and a small smile quirks her lips. She has not looked so happy since the Old Gods passed on their gift.

“You refused Lord Bolton’s offer to betroth me to his heir,” Sansa says easily, stepping into the solar. “I am glad you did, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

“I want Ramsay Snow to stay here,” she continues on without waiting for a response.

“Why?” Oh, he noticed the boy’s fascination with her. Everyone noticed how the boy’s eyes lingered on her, how he stared at her, pale eyes glittering with unspoken interest. Everyone at Winterfell noticed, though from Catelyn’s hovering he has to guess his wife missed the way Sansa stared back.

“Because he believed me when I spoke of my visions, when I told him what I saw of his family. And-” Sansa hesitates then, fingers clenched in the fabric of her dress, “he isn’t afraid. He sees me, father, and he does not flinch away.”

His first instinct is to refuse, already eager to avoid yet another fight with Catelyn. And yet-

“Would this make you happy?” He finds himself asking.

“More than anything, father,” his daughter responds eagerly, eyes bright with hope.

“Very well,” he finally responds, moving to stand and placing a hesitant hand on Sansa’s shoulder.

 _If nothing else,_  Ned reflects, _Roose Bolton ought to be pleased._


	9. Bone and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! heads up, this chapter includes graphic description of animal mutilation and animal death

Father is waiting in their rooms when he finally returns, still sulking over soon leaving Sansa.

“Ramsay,” father’s tone is as cold as ever, his face as unreadable as always, though something almost glitters in his eyes.

“Yes?” He asks, sparing a glance at his brother, though Domeric seems equally confused. Bracing himself for the punishment, for father must have somehow heard of his encounter with Sansa, he doesn’t expect the words that come.

“Lord Stark has requested you stay at Winterfell.”

“What?” Domeric’s voice pierces the silence following father’s words, though Ramsay is too preoccupied with the sudden stirring of what feels like hope to care.

“The man speaks of fostering,” father continues. “Though it is far more likely he wants you as a playmate for his daughter.”

The smile that comes across his face is involuntary, the grin at the thought of spending more time with the seer. 

“You will not shame me,” father says, face impassive as he issues the command.

“I won’t, father,” he replies, squaring his shoulders and doing his best to look serious.

Father stares for a long moment, pale eyes searching, before nodding once, sharp and quick, and turning to Domeric.

The dismissal would normally grate, to be treated as nothing more than a hound. But he would endure father’s disapproval with no more than two-maybe three-irreverent comments for the chance to stay.

* * *

Mother had insisted Ramsay eat at one of the low tables with Theon and Jon during the dinner held a few hours after Lord Bolton and his southron heir left. Even though he’s the son of a lord notoriously difficult to please, even though her decision is dreadfully rude and far too disrespectful. And so Sansa feels no shame in what she does next.

Robb opens his mouth to say something when she descends from the high table, when mother reaches for her, but she doesn’t listen, walking down and down until she reaches the low table.

“Sansa?” Jon ventures, his surprise obvious, but Sansa only smiles, gesturing for a servant to bring another plate.

“Slumming with us, Sansa?” Theon teases, usual cocky smirk in place.

There are so many ways she could respond, so many quips, so many excuses. But as she sees the carefully hidden surprise on Ramsay’s face, only one answer comes to mind.

“I want to be here.” 

* * *

Looks of surprise follow her as Sansa heads to the training yard. Everyone knows she prefers to avoid it, at least when she isn’t being taught archery herself or staying to watch her little sister train.

Ignoring mother’s now familiar frown as she walks through the yard, Sansa settles down to watch the spar about to begin, Jeyne sitting on one side of her and Arya on the other.

“Robb will beat him,” Arya says confidently as she watches the two opponents test their blades, Robb settling into position and Ramsay across from him. 

“Probably,” Sansa agrees easily, watching as Ramsay and Robb both step forward at Ser Rodrik’s command. She could listen to the voices whispering in her mind, to the mutters speaking of defeat and victory and know for certain. But Sansa has grown accustomed to ignoring them. After all, a spar is much more exciting when no one knows who will win.

Her bastard lunges first, an awkward maneuver that puts him in Robb’s path. She watches, silent compared to Arya’s own cheering, as her brother twists and turns, sword striking Ramsay’s own blade.

Only seconds in and it is clear he will lose, not unless he does something drastic. And drastic it is when he turns, ramming his sword up and into Robb’s blade before pushing it aside in a clumsy attempt at disarming him. Her brother clearly doesn’t know what to do when his own blade falls, backing up a step before Ramsay is on him.

Sansa lets out a laugh of her own, smiling wide when he snarls, one hand reaching out to fist in Robb’s shirt and a leg kicking him in the stomach. Ramsay follows his attack with a punch, a wet noise echoing through the yard as his fist comes away from Robb’s nose wet with blood.

Her brother is yelling, hand clutched to his nose, and Ser Rodrik is already moving to scold the other boy. Sansa, though, can only focus on the satisfied smile on Ramsay’s face, can only focus on how _pretty_ Robb’s blood looks smeared across his skin.

* * *

He is growing bored. Ramsay knew he wouldn’t be able to seek his usual entertainment, knew the Starks would never approve. He knew that, and yet he didn’t think it would be so boring.

Lord Stark had already given him a long lecture on appropriate conduct when he found his son sprawled in the dirt, never mind Ramsay actually winning the match. And as for lessons-he knows it makes sense, to have more difficulty than these lordlings who have been taught since they were children. It makes sense but he cannot abide the pity in the maester’s eyes or the way Sansa’s older brothers laugh when her little sister declares he has trouble with reading and his sums.

Sansa is his only defender, smiling sharply at her brothers until they slink away, poorly hidden fear in their eyes. They don’t know about her gift, or at least he doesn’t think so, but they fall in line at a look even so.

Ramsay wants to kill, wants to hurt, wants to make something scream. He wants it-no, he _needs_ it.

Clever Sansa is the one who solves his problem, coming to him after another lost spar in the training yard.

“Come to the godswood before the hour ends,” she tells him, more demand than question. “Oh,” she adds quickly, “bring the knife you keep under your bed.”

“And miss my lessons?” He asks, though it does nothing to diminish the eagerness in his voice.

“Don’t worry, I can come up with a suitable excuse,” Sansa replies, gentle voice contradicting the sharpness of her smile.

* * *

Born a bastard, the servants seem to see Ramsay as closer to them than the Starks. They’re eager to talk, eager to complain, and that is how he knows what Stark’s southron wife thinks of the godswood.

They claim the trout bitch avoids the wood, they claim she’s actually scared of it.

Whatever the reason, Ramsay is glad she won’t be able to interrupt as Sansa leads him deeper into the wood before stopping suddenly, gaze caught on the tree above her.

“Wait here,” are her only words before she steps forward, eyeing a branch and reaching up to swing herself onto it.

He watches her climb higher and higher, her skirt now stained with needles and dirt, before she reaches a final branch.

Sansa tilts her head before looking down, smile sharp as she grabs hold of something he can’t see and shoves.

Taking a quick step back, Ramsay narrowly misses the bird nest that comes crashing down, cracked eggs tumbling along the ground. But one bird still lives, a raven with a broken wing croaking weakly.

“You need to hurt something,” his seer calls out as she carefully climbs down. “I can’t get you a larger animal, but I thought-” 

She quiets at his eager smile, dusting off her dress as she steps forward.

Kneeling down to look at the wounded bird, Ramsay pulls out his battered knife before stopping.

“Is something wrong?” Sansa asks, kneeling down beside him, before her concerned look turns surprised as he presses the blade into her own hand.

“I want you to do it,” are his only words.

“What,” Sansa pauses. “What do I do?”

Ramsay shrugs, reaching a finger to wrap around the raven’s wing and pull a pained cry from it.

“Whatever makes you feel good,” he says with a shrug, still kneeling as he watches her twirl in the knife in her hands, biting at her bottom lip as she concentrates.

Almost reverent, Sansa leans forward, gently easing the knife into one of the bird’s eyes. Ignoring the cries growing louder, she slips it down and pulls up, eliciting a scream from the bird as she pulls the rest out, fingers splattered with blood.

Ramsay grins as she repeats it with the other eye, pulling at the broken wing when the bird starts to struggle anew. Her hands now sticky with blood, Sansa pauses, looking down at the broken wing before sliding the knife into the bird’s flesh.

Hands wet with blood, Sansa delicately grasps at the bone jutting out. Face still serene, she grabs hold of the bone and pulls, the bird shuddering as bone slowly emerges from skin. Finally most of the wing hangs down, flesh appearing as she pulls the bone until most is exposed to the air.

Sansa leans back, hands slick with blood and bits of flesh as she stares at the bird. Somehow still alive, it cries out, shuddering in pain. 

Still gentle, almost reverent, she takes hold of the bird and makes it stand. Watching for a moment as it struggles, swaying and buckling, a smile finally comes to her face. Without a word she acts, the bloody knife coming down on its neck.

Ramsay leans back, breath caught in his throat at the raven’s dying call, at the way the body writhes as the head is cut off.

Turning to look at Sansa, he sees her eyes widen, blood soaked knife loosening in her grip as she sucks in air.

“That-that was-”

“I know,” Ramsay interrupts, a smug smile on his face as he takes in Sansa’s own dreamy gaze, “and it’s even better with humans.”

He smiles at her as the knife slips from her hand, as Sansa reaches out and clutches at his fingers, blood smearing his skin.


	10. Outside Looking In

Lady Catelyn was _furious._

Oh, she had kept her composure when Lord Bolton had agreed to father’s offer. Even with her pale face and narrowed eyes and her lips pressed tight, she kept her composure.

But the servants talk and every one of them speaks of her yelling at father, of screaming and raging over the Bolton bastard staying at Winterfell.

Jon always tried to bury his resentment when it comes to Lady Catelyn, the unpleasant emotions his father’s wife brought to the surface, but now he is just bewildered. Everyone could see Sansa was sad since the fever. Everyone could see she was lonely-a loneliness, Jon is ashamed to admit, they contributed to. But the new bastard changed that, she smiled and laughed and even began to talk to her own family again. 

Lady Catelyn is southron to the core, follows the faith of the seven as faithfully as any septa must. He knows she must think this Bolton boy will somehow find a way to shame Sansa, to take liberties with her daughter. 

His father’s wife is a fool for thinking so. The mere thought is ridiculous. No bastard would risk stealing a kiss from, much less raping, the daughter of a great house. Not when every bastard knows such a thing would see them killed.

She is a fool, that much is plain. Only a fool would let her prejudice blind her, only a fool wouldn’t stop to consider the facts. Only a fool would curse her own child’s happiness.

* * *

There is something wrong with Ramsay Snow.

Robb has never held to his mother’s own views on bastards, not when his beloved brother is one. Jon is the only bastard he has ever met and Jon is not lustful, Jon is not treacherous or scheming.

Foolish, Robb realizes now, to think that all bastards must be like his kindhearted brother.

He had ignored the unease he felt when those pale eyes looked his way, the nervousness when the bastard smiled, eyes glittering with something he could not name.

The nerves were easy enough to ignore knowing the boy made Sansa happy. Mother was furious when Sansa ignored her, father was cautious and watchful, but Robb felt only joy when Sansa leaned in to whisper to her new playmate. Sansa smiled, Sansa laughed-she even ignored Maester Luwin during lessons to talk with Ramsay. If the Bolton bastard could make his little sister happy, could make her smile like she did before the fever, Robb was convinced he couldn’t be that bad. 

But now he knows there is something wrong with Ramsay Snow.

Even Theon, as ill tempered as he can be when close to losing, never acted like the bastard. Even Theon never broke the rules to openly attack him, punching until he could feel his nose crack under the weight, could feel the blood flowing through his fingers.

There is something wrong with Ramsay Snow and, watching Sansa smile at the bloody boy, Robb begins to think there is something wrong with his little sister too.

* * *

Perhaps part of the blame lay with him. After all, Theon did provoke the bastard even after the boy bloodied Robb’s nose.

It had been yet another day in the yard, idly practicing under Ser Rodrik’s watchful eyes, when Sansa and the Bolton bastard had appeared.

It seemed a bad idea to let Sansa try her luck at archery, mad as she was, but it wasn’t like Lord Stark cared about what Theon thought.

Sansa had barely let anyone touch her after she woke up mad, Theon knows this. Even her mother’s hugs had been dodged, even little Rickon’s attempts at clutching her were barely tolerated.

He supposes he cannot blame Robb’s gasp when the new bastard steps forward and lays a hand on her arm to correct her stance-and she lets him!

The pair are talking quietly, Sansa smiling more than she has in months, when Theon turns to see the frown on Robb’s face, the bruises covering his face and the white bandage on his nose.

Perhaps it was brotherly concern, perhaps it was just to see if he could. Whatever the reason, Theon leans down to smile at the bastard boy when he steps back and joins them in watching Sansa practice.

“You know,” he begins with all the charm he can muster and the subtlety of a raging bull, “Lady Stark won’t ever let her daughter marry a bastard. You’d be lucky to sneak a kiss and luckier still not to be tossed out in the cold.”

But the bastard doesn’t respond like he wants, doesn’t rage or yell. Instead those pale eyes only stare before the boy begins to speak. 

“Do you expect to marry her?” Ramsay Snow asks, sounding almost innocently curious. “Lord Stark would never let Sansa marry a dead man. Your squid father will rebel again one day, and Lord Stark will do his duty.” The boy has the gall to smile then, “I am a ward of House Stark, you are the hostage.”

Smile widening, the boy steps forward just a foot. “It’s dangerous here, you know. All those ways you could die...and who would care about about a hostage turning up dead?"


End file.
